Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/177

Rh  To men of holy life Its glorious crown is given, Who nurse amid this vale of strife, The peaceful germs of Heaven.

 

Grave, that never loos'd its hold, But on its prey insatiate fed, Restores a victim, pale and cold, He cometh forth, the sheeted dead. Ah! wherefore com'st thou? safely past The gate of agony and pain, That pang endured, the worst, the last, Why dar'st thou thus that strife again?

Com'st thou to share the traitor-kiss, That Earth bestows at Wisdom's cost? Com'st thou to gather pearls of bliss, And find them broken, strew'd, and lost? True, Bethany's green vales are bright, Thy sister's home is sad for thee, But Paradise hath purer light, And love without infirmity.

Methought he spake, that fearful form, The sleeper, 'neath the burial sod, The accepted brother of the worm, "Behold my Saviour, and my God!" 